


overture of brutus

by melstar



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Compliant, Feelings, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Post-Time Skip, i guess, metaphors AGAIN, ushijima wakatoshi Is brutus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27748486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melstar/pseuds/melstar
Summary: The hour or so right before a storm is one of those timeless stretches of life where you feel like ten minutes have passed, but then you glance at the clock and you’ve spent two hours standing on your front porch, breathing. It is terrifying, yet comforting. Sometimes, it is what we yearn for.A text, from Ushijima, glows up at him.Could you use some company?
Relationships: Kageyama Tobio/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Comments: 20
Kudos: 131





	overture of brutus

**Author's Note:**

> You will see! I will make you see how great ushikage is!
> 
> Thank you to aleena for betaing as always!!
> 
> CW for alcohol use to be safe
> 
> Enjoy :)

Humans have the uncanny sense of knowing when a storm is brewing. We “feel it in our bones.” The air becomes denser, almost too thick in our lungs. It’s almost as if a god has momentarily granted us a taste of immortality, of ubiquity. The knowledge of this weather phenomena is intoxicating, physically manifested in the tightening of our chests, like the god has wrapped its hand around our measly bodies and squeezed.

Some people can _smell_ the rain coming. It’s a rich, earthy scent, but clear, like how springwater tastes. It infiltrates the senses, alights the nerves, surrounds the body. The feeling is animalistic in nature, unexplainable yet so natural. It returns humans to the most base version of themselves, where they have no need of thoughts, and therefore no worries.

The hour or so right before a storm is one of those timeless stretches of life where you feel like ten minutes have passed, but then you glance at the clock and you’ve spent two hours standing on your front porch, breathing. It is terrifying, yet comforting. Sometimes, it is what we yearn for.

|

Kageyama is stuck in that inbetween. He’s made it through the excitement of highschool, and the U-19 team, and now he’s settled down on the Schweiden Adlers. It’s been two years since he joined the V. League, and he’s found a rhythm, a routine. He’s twenty-one, and he’s exactly where he wants to be.

However, he can’t help but feel trapped. A stable, steady job after years of jumping teams and cities feels like he’s dipped his hand in ice water, his joints freezing up and his fingers going numb. He’s happy, but he gets bored. Tokyo isn’t the awe-inspiring huge city it used to be; now, it’s home. All around him his life is slowing down, but he is a bullet train rocketing toward the station of constance at maximum speed.

However, there _is_ one constant in Kageyama’s life that doesn’t bore him. Ushijima Wakatoshi—stable, but exhilarating. Strong, intoxicatingly so. He commands his body expertly, agile and dexterous despite his size. Kageyama loves setting for him. Sometimes he can’t help himself, Ushijima’s raw power daring Kageyama to give the ball to someone else. His presence on the court is an undulating monster, prickling the skin at the back of Kageyama’s neck, enticing and intimidating.

Kageyama is stuck in that inbetween, but it can be so exciting. The taste of lightning that settles on the back of his tongue, sending a buzz through his skull. The scent of stimulation that he craves. He’s simply waiting for the next storm to hit.

|

Late one night, after a victory celebration that almost got the Adlers kicked out of the venue, Kageyama is just finishing up with his shower when his phone buzzes on the nightstand. He dresses quickly, half-heartedly toweling his hair dry, before checking it. A text, from Ushijima, glows up at him.

_Could you use some company?_

Could he use some company. What a strange question, especially coming from the spiker. He hasn’t spent much time outside of practice with Ushijima, let alone in his own apartment. He wouldn’t exactly say they're close. They’re colleagues, they do their job and they do it well, and that’s where the relationship ends. But this. This feels a lot like the moment just before the first lightning bolt strikes. A routine change, unexpected, new. Kageyama gets curious.

He types out, _Sure_.

A minute or two, and then, _I’ll see you in 15 minutes_.

Kageyama clicks his phone off and sets it back on the nightstand.

True to his word, there’s a knock on Kageyama’s door fifteen minutes later, and he opens it to a slightly disheveled Ushijima. The spiker looks tired, his hair sticking up in some places, almost as if he had just woken up. He’s still in the same clothes from the afterparty, a navy button down, now wrinkled, and grey slacks. His eyes, deep forest green, peer down at Kageyama from under heavy lids, lazily calculating.

Kageyama steps aside, letting Ushijima in without a word. While the spiker toes off his shoes in the entrance, Kageyama grabs a bottle of wine and two glasses from the kitchen. He moves into the living room, Ushijima tagging along, and puts the wine on the coffee table. Ushijima settles into a chair, Kageyama getting comfortable on the couch across from him. He pours his own drink, then Ushijima’s. The opposite readily accepts the glass, taking a sip.

Leaning back into the cushions, Kageyama takes a moment to really look at Ushijima. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he keeps his arms close, one resting in his lap, the other propped on his knee, supporting his drink. The setter can see now just how tired he is, a light purple staining the skin underneath his eyes. Was he this exhausted at the afterparty? Kageyama can’t remember paying enough attention to notice. There’s obviously something bothering him, though. The spiker keeps glancing toward the floor-to-ceiling window that makes up a portion of the wall. He’s tapping at his glass periodically, drumming a rhythm only he can hear.

“What are you thinking?” Ushijima shatters the silence. It catches Kageyama off guard.

He recovers gracefully. “You played well today.”

“I suppose,” the spiker hums, “It is all thanks to you.”

Kageyama doesn’t respond, because it’s true. There are no hitters without a setter. They can score, but not in the way that truly satisfies them.

There’s not much to find in Ushijima’s expression, but then again there never is. He is the definition of stoic, reminiscent of the great Brutus, proud and admirable, independent in his glory. He shows no weakness, bares no Achilles’ heel, so that no arrow can penetrate his heart and watch him crumble with the stone walls of Rome.

“I’m glad you joined the team,” Ushijima says quietly. A crack in the facade.

Kageyama nods, adding a somber, “Me too.”

After a minute, “It was a relief to see someone from home again.”

The setter hums in agreement. “Tokyo certainly is different from Miyagi.”

“Yes,” the spiker reflects, “it is.” 

Suddenly Ushijima sighs deeply and downs half of his wine. He stands, drifting toward the window. Kageyama sets his drink on the coffee table and follows.

From Kageyama’s apartment, on the twenty-first story, he can just barely see out past the city to the rest of Japan. He sometimes wonders what’s happening out there, where his old teammates are now, what his parents are doing, what _he_ might do, if he left for the exciting unknown. There’s a haze that surrounds the outskirts of Tokyo, a point where the light of life blends with the night before it drops into the navy of the countryside.

Ushijima takes a sip of his wine.

His eyes still glued to the city, Kageyama asks, “Why did you come here, Ushijima?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the opposite turn toward him.

“Kageyama.” His voice is low, somewhat hushed. It sounds like he means to share some secret. _Crack_.

“Yes?”

“You are a dedicated setter. Your intensity on the court is contagious. Hitting your sets feels like I’m winning the Olympics with every point.” _Crack_.

A pause. “I give you what I know you can take.”

“And that,” Ushijima insists, “is what makes you so great. You are… predestined.”

Kageyama looks at him. “Predestined?”

The spiker nods, and maybe Kageyama is imagining things, but he thinks there’s an inkling of a smile on his face. Weakness. “Yes.”

Minutes pass while they study each other. Kageyama notices the way Ushijima slips his free hand into his pocket, notices the top three buttons of his shirt are undone, notices how his hair falls messily over his forehead, but not in an unattractive way. He follows Ushijima’s eyes as they pass over his own face, taking in his damp hair, the simple t-shirt he’s wearing. Suddenly he feels like a lightning rod, the spiker’s gaze surrounding him with electricity.

Kageyama scoffs a little. “You came to tell me I’m predestined.”

“I did,” Ushijima responds.

Frustration creeps in like a slow-moving storm cloud. “That can’t be it.”

Ushijima’s eyes flash, and for a moment Kageyama feels vulnerable. The spiker is like a monolith, standing tall and ominous next to him, commanding his attention through intimidating charm. Ushijima brings the glass to his lips once more. “What makes you say that?”

“You’ve been on edge since you got here. Tapping your glass, constantly looking out the window, drinking your wine to avoid responding right away. What is it?”

The opposite’s smile tightens. Brutus betrays his sobriety. His eyes waver for a second, dropping to Kageyama’s chest before regaining the strength to face him again. “I’ve been…” he muses, turning the words over his on tongue like they’re foreign, rolling them through the cavity of careful consideration. “Agitated.”

The setter bites his lip, catching a glimpse of Ushijima’s collarbone peeking out from beneath the navy button down. Without thinking, he lets the words spill from his lips. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

Ushijima raises an eyebrow, his lips tugging sideways. He’s caught the meaning. “How so?”

And yeah, maybe Kageyama’s a little bit tipsy, or maybe it’s the allure of uncertainty, or maybe it’s the influence of the city splayed out beneath their feet, dark and beautiful, but he can’t help himself. He steps closer to Ushijima, his hand finding the opposite’s arm. A hand on his ribs is barely registered. Pine eyes, soft but sharp as an eagle’s, keep his own locked in a godlike staring contest.

Kageyama breaks it, and the heavenly wrath comes raining down around them. He leans in, catching Ushijima’s lips. The arrow hits its mark. The war is lost, Brutus stands before him proud and loyal, but ravaged. The inbetween has ended in a glorious thunderstorm, a barrage of rain that makes Kageyama feel visceral, carnal. He savors Ushijima’s mouth, upon which the smile has grown to full. Behind his closed eyes Kageyama sees the lightning strikes, revels in their electricity, welcoming the storm.

He feels the hand on his torso drop to his hip, brings his own to Ushijima’s jaw. The pressure from the kiss is delicious. Kageyama feels light-headed from the way the opposite’s lips meet his, quick but languid, followed by a short reprieve before the wave comes crashing back. He tastes like the wine, bitter and intoxicating, the alcohol pricking his lips exquisitely. Ushijima’s tongue is faithful, painting a masterpiece on the inside of Kageyama’s mouth.

Kageyama slides his fingers up Ushijima’s wrist, usurping the wine glass from his hand. He pulls back to take a sip, holding the spiker’s gaze, then moves away entirely to put it back on the table. He returns like a magnet, drawn in by strong arms and green eyes. Ushijima drags him into another kiss, slow and listless. He feels himself being led toward the couch, gravity tipping them over the edge. The arms cage him in, the eyes peer down at him, and Kageyama drinks in ubiquity. The air is dense, riddled with rainfall, and the thunder fills his ears. He sighs into stone lips. This is what he’s been waiting for.

Kageyama doesn’t know how long they make out, but the alcohol wears off about halfway through. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Ushijima smile so much. Kageyama feels honored, knowing there’s not many people that get to see him like this. It makes his chest tighten. After a while he sits up, planting one more kiss to the corner of Ushijima’s lips before pulling away entirely. He leans back, grinning at the way the opposite’s hair has become messier, how the fourth button has come undone.

Ushijima looks a little dazed, and he chuckles before asking, “How’s that for better?”

Kageyama rolls his eyes, but his smile widens. “Good. Really good.”

They finish the wine, and then another bottle. The storm is raging, Rome is falling, but Brutus endures within the sanctuary of Kageyama’s apartment.

**Author's Note:**

> my [twitter](https://twitter.com/tsumichor)! please come yell about ushikage with me <3


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